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Quinn rings the buzzer at eight. This time, he comes to the door.
Those eyes dig into me, and I make sure to keep my smile carefully pinned into place. I make no effort to resist when he cups my nape and tilts my head up to kiss me. Somewhere between the bath and getting dressed, I decided to take this evening as it comes. I’ll give him as much of my truth as I can without endangering my sister. What he does with that information will be his problem.
For now…the kiss. God, I love the way he kisses.
I’m moaning like a whore in church by the time he lifts his head.
“I’ve fucking missed doing that.”
I laugh. “Me too.”
He doesn’t smile exactly, but I can tell my response pleases him. “You ready?”
I nod. The weather has turned warmer in the last couple of days, so I bring a wrap with my clutch.
We head to a nightclub—XYNYC—in Soho. Even before we reach the valet parking area, the paparazzi are upon us. They shout Quinn’s name, fire questions about who I am and what we are to each other. Lights blind me and I stumble when I get out of the car.
Quinn tries to protect me from the more aggressive of the paps and that sparks an even greater frenzy. By the time we stumble through the VIP entrance, I’ve swung from easygoing about our date to regret.
“Sorry about that.” Quinn’s jaw tightens and he gauges my reaction carefully once we’re inside. “They normally keep their distance.”
My shrug doesn’t fire on all cylinders because my mind is busy churning out worst case scenarios of what this could mean for me in terms of Clay finding me. I shudder.
What the fuck have I done?
Quinn frowns. “Elyse, are you okay?”
I meet his gaze, take a breath and go with the truth. “There’s someone looking for me. Someone I’m hoping won’t find me until I’m ready to be found.” I wave a shaky hand outside. “Those paps—”
I stop speaking when he steps toward me and cradles my face in his hands. “I’ll take care of it. I promise.”
My eyes widen. “How?”
His thumbs brush down my cheeks. “I won’t bore you with the details, but I want you to trust me. Can you do that?”
Nodding is stupidly simple, if seriously unwise.
I taste his approval in the kiss he seals on my lips. And when he links his fingers with mine and leads me into the nightclub, my fear is reduced to dregs.
He takes me to his personal roped off VIP area, and we order burgers and fries. I’m sipping a glass of champagne and checking out the glitterati on the dance floor when we’re joined by a dark-haired, drop dead gorgeous hunk of beefcake. With his gelled back hair, carefully cropped stubble and sharp designer suit, he looks like he’s just finished a photo shoot for GQ magazine. Except the deadly look in his eyes and the granite-set jaw tells me he would chew up and spit out anyone who dares come near him with a camera.
He nods and rumbles a response when we’re introduced. I catch his name as Axel Rutherford, owner of the club, but not much else. He conducts a low, terse conversation with Quinn, then leaves.
From across the lounge, Quinn stares at me.
Something about the way his head cocks to the side tweaks a brain wave. But then he starts moving and I’m lost in the animal grace of him, the sheer sexiness of the man who seems as absorbed in me as I am in him. He reaches me, cups my shoulders and leans down to whisper in my ear.
“Tell me what song you like.”
My smile is a little shy. “Why?”
“I want you to dance for me.”
Not with me. For me. Way to throw a self-conscious vibe on a girl. “I don’t really—”
“Please.”
My eyes goggle at the intensity behind the plea. I blurt out something like Maroon 5. He beckons the bouncer and relays the information. Two songs later, the club mix of “Animals” pounds through the speakers. I recall the lyrics and inwardly grimace.